


Cynosure

by theparacosm



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, And He's Also A Serial Killer, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arson, Attempt at Humor, Balanced Original Characters, Blades, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood spatter, Body Horror, Brotherly Love, Cannibalism, Canonical Character Death, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Comedy, Dexter Books References, Dexter Finally Gets A Good Partner, Dexter Morgan Needs A Hug, Enemies to Friends, Evil Twins, F/F, F/M, FBI Profilers, Frank Lundy Doesn't Die, Frank Lundy Is So Tired, Hannah McKay Isn't A Mary Sue, Hannibal references, Inappropriate Humor, Kidnapping, Knives, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Examination, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Jargon, Medical Procedures, Military Background, Murder, POV Dexter Morgan, Partners in Crime, Police, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Psychology, Religious Fanaticism, Rita May Not Die, Serial Killer Buddies, Serial Killers, Sex, This Comes With A Soundtrack, Tranquilizers, Various Crimes, Violence, Weapons, criminal minds references, questionable life choices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27182005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparacosm/pseuds/theparacosm
Summary: Tonight's the night, and it's going to happen again and again. Has to happen.But this night feels...different.Because for once, I'm not doing this on my own.
Relationships: Angel Batista/Maria LaGuerta, Debra Morgan & Joey Quinn, Debra Morgan/Brian Moser, Debra Morgan/Joey Quinn, Dexter Morgan & Brian Moser, Dexter Morgan & Frank Lundy, Dexter Morgan & Harry Morgan, Dexter Morgan & James Doakes, Dexter Morgan & Original Character(s), Dexter Morgan/Lila West, Dexter Morgan/Lumen Pierce, Frank Lundy/Debra Morgan, Jack Harkness/Isaak Sirko, James Doakes/Debra Morgan, Rita Bennett & Debra Morgan, Rita Bennett/Dexter Morgan
Kudos: 6





	Cynosure

**Author's Note:**

> This was birthed from a few weeks of consideration, and the news that a limited series of Dexter may be coming out in a year or two. I'm more excited than you can imagine, and I've finally got the confidence--and resources--to write this book. I haven't seen too many Dexter OC fanfics, so I decided to write one.
> 
> Of course, the character I write in will affect the plot, and the plot will affect him. He's not here to fall in love with a character, he's here to explore a part of _Dexter_ that the screenwriter's didn't--the perspectives of the other characters around America's favorite serial killer. 
> 
> Also, he's here to branch out the story in ways that the writers couldn't. I don't have a fanbase, so I can do what I please.
> 
> Please enjoy the read.

**_Part One : The Ice Truck Killer_ **

**_ACRONYCHAL :_ ** _ SOMETHING OCCURING DURING THE EVENING OR NIGHT _

**DEXTER MORGAN**

**There is something so very relaxing about the morning after a clean kill.**

Not to say that any of my kills aren't  _ clean _ , because that would be a lie. The only thing that could be counted as messy about my ritual would be severing limbs with a bone saw, but even that red, sticky, metallic blood stays away from my hands and face. I have to thank all the mundane, innocent people for creating polycarbonate face shields and disposable latex gloves. Not to mention vinyl aprons--an ironic lifesaver, if you ask me. Less blood to clean off my clothes.

My Dark Passenger has been satiated for now. The bubbling  _ need _ that had been pressing up against my ribcage this entire week had finally dissipated, leaving me with the fresh feeling of satisfaction and a 75-by-25 millimeter slide filled with Father Terrence Donovan's blood. I could feel it pressing up against my pocket behind my phone, keys in the other pocket. Popping the grill cap off of the air conditioner, I listened to the sound of the nearby ocean. Pulling out the dust filter and setting it do the side evenly beside the grill, I reached my hand into the darkness inside the air conditioner system. Cold mahogany greeted me as I pulled the rectangular box out from its ingenious hiding spot.

A smile split my face as I popped open the box, painted gold latch clicking against the well-worn clip. I resisted the urge to run my fingers over the neat glass blood slides sitting in rows, instead fishing in my pocket for the newest addition to my trophy collection. I didn't have any time to reminisce over my old kills, I had my daytime life to get to. I examined the blood in the early, saturated Miami light, a red circle reflecting over my father's face in one of the many pictures I kept of my family. Not only did it keep up my front, but it was good to remember what Harry had taught me. Ingrained into me. 

Turning back to the slide, I narrowed my eyes.  _ Blood. Sometimes it sets my teeth on edge. Other times, it helps me control the chaos. _ I took the slide in both hands and nestled it into its place in the box, right at the front. I could remember the names and faces of all the victims before the priest, their last words, the ecstasy that came with the kill...but there was no time. I had to clock into work soon, and I assumed there'd be a crime scene if not loads of paperwork to file and tests to run.  _ Dull, Demure, Discreet, Dexter. _ That's the mask I'd have to wear as soon as I left this silent apartment.

_ The Code of Harry is satisfied, though, _ I thought to myself, snapping the box shut with a small smile. I set it back in its proper place behind the air conditioner, and sat down at my tidy desk. I straightened one of the pens and then popped open a drawer filled with various files in organized stacks.  _ And so am I. _

I shuffled through the papers, eyes scanning the news article labelled "Socialite Reported Missing".  _ Harry was a great cop here in Miami, and he taught me how to think like one. Taught me how to cover my tracks. _ A smile split my face once again.  _ I'm a very neat monster. _

Setting down the printed copy of the newspaper, I eyed the answering machine on the telephone on my desk. There was one message from Debra waiting for me. I clicked the button, listening to her voice in dead silence.

"Dexter, you there?" She asked, sounding impatient. Though, to be fair, she seldom wasn't. "Okay, Dex, please, as soon as you get in, I'm at a crime scene by the shithole Seven Seas Motel." I put my head down on my arms, smiling as I listened to my sister. Our paths rarely crossed inside work, and it sounded like I'd get to see her very soon. It wouldn't be too bold for me to assume she'd be stuck in a tube top and beach shorts, opposed to the fresh-pressed blues she oh-so loved. I spared a glance at a photo of Deb and I beside the phone as she kept talking. "And I need you here, okay? Dex? Please." _ She even said the magic words. Must be serious.  _ "Pretty fuckin' please with cheese on top."  _ That's Debra for you. Foul-mouthed as ever. _

I nodded as I let the message click silent, getting out of the chair and making my way to my bedroom, mind still on my foster sister.  _ She has a big heart, but never lets anyone see it _ , I mused as I began to change into everyday clothes. Wearing a 4-button Henley and paratrooper boots to a crime scene made me look like a perpetrator. Plus, I do prefer boat shoes and tacky guayabera shirts.  _ In fact, Deb might be the only person in the world who loves me. And...that's pretty nice, even though it can't _ really  _ be reciprocated. _ I looked out the open window as I shimmied a blue pin-striped linen shirt over my shoulders.  _ Not having feelings about anything makes having a sibling extremely taxing sometimes. But if I did have feelings, they'd be reserved for Deb, surely. _

I buttoned up the shirt, pressing my lips together as I thought about it. I had long since come to terms with my situation, the darkness inside of me, but it didn’t stop me from thinking about it more often than I should.

**. o O o .**

**DEXTER MORGAN**

Debra had been right. The Seven Seas Motel was indeed a “shithole”. Grime and trash littered the ground and there was the nervous chatter of civilians from beyond the highlighter-yellow crime scene tape. While unis held them back, I flashed my badge at a nearby officer and ducked into the restricted scene. He held his arm out in front of my gut, scowling.

“You better be a cop,” he snapped.

I put my laminate up to his face, not even breaking step as I kept on walking. “No, forensics.”

_ There’s something very strange and disarming about looking at a homicide scene in the daylight of Miami.  _ I turned on my heel and made sure the car was locked, raising an eyebrow at one of the officers still narrowing his eyes at me. There had been a fiasco last week with someone using a counterfeit CSI badge, and now everyone was a little suspicious. 

I wasn’t too worried, though. I was one of the oldest forensic investigators in the department, and anyone but the new recruits and interns could back me on it. 

Turning to look up at the sunlight, I squinted my eyes.  _ It makes even the most grotesque killings look staged. Like you’re in a new daring and exciting section of Disney World--Dahmer Land. _

Eyes still narrowed in the glaring sunlight, I could just see Debra in a neon crop-tank and a miniskirt almost short enough for me to get protective of her. Not that it was ever necessary. Despite working in Vice and hating every second of it, Deb thrived with a gun in her hand or a fist in someone’s face. Made my job as the older brother much easier when my sister could already kick ass.

“Dex!” She called out to me, waving impatiently. I gave her a quick nod of acknowledgement and a quick smile, before heading over towards her. I had no doubt that she was eager to get in on the crime scene, and I was her entry ticket.

“Hey, what’s up?” I asked as she gave a glance towards the nearby pool. I followed her eyes, noting that it had been drained of all the water.  _ Probably where the crime scene is.  _ She guided me into the hotel room and hastily shut the door behind her. I looked her up and down, raising my eyebrows. “Jeez, Deb, where the hell do you keep your gun?”

“Cut the crap,” she said, plucking a still-lit cigarette off the ashtray and sticking it in her mouth. “They found another hooker in the pool.”

“Another?” I asked. Murder didn’t particularly phase me, but I was surprised that I had missed out on what seemed like homicides. I was the blood guy, after all.

“At least, they think it’s a hooker. Chopped up in bits and pieces.” She looked at me through the finger-print covered mirror, smoke billowing from her mouth. Smoking was somewhat abhorrent for me, but Deb’s business was her business. “That’s the third one in five months.”

“Third?” I asked, my heart almost skipping a beat. “You mean, there’s a--”

“Hell yeah, we got a serial killer,” Deb said, wiping her lip gloss off with a used napkin. “The other two were in Broward, chopped up just like this one.” I turned and looked out the window, back down at the pool. I could just see three figures standing over a blanketed  _ thing _ at the bottom of the pool.

“Any suspects?” I asked nonchalantly, trying to hide my intrigue. It had been awhile since a fellow traveler had come into my crosshairs. Perhaps a challenge had finally arisen from the dark. 

“Wish I knew,” Deb said, almost angrily. Her position in Vice didn’t warrant her any “good” information on the cases. “I’m on Vice, so LaGuerta told me to go sit in my room and stay out of sight. That bitch.”

“God forbid she listens to what you have to say,” I said dryly, looking out the window again and looking for the signature glint of Maria LaGuerta’s high-quality jewelry.

“Tell me about it,” Deb said, and I could hear the creak of the vanity as she leaned on it. “How does someone so dumb get so much power?”

“Truth?” I asked, turning back to my sister with a small smirk. “She knows how to play the game. You could take a lesson.”

“In what?” She asked, taking another puff on her cigarette. “Ass-kissing?”

“Politics,” I said, gesturing at her as she talked with one of the witnesses, probably in Cuban. Her lips were moving so fast I felt like I was fast-forwarding a conversation. Which, in essence, was the Cuban language. 

“I just wanna find this guy before he kills another one of my girls,” Deb said, a little bit of sadness creeping into her voice. This is what I meant about her having a big heart, but…

“You can’t get so emotionally invested,” I reminded her. 

“You always say that,” She replied, putting a hand on her hip.

“So did Dad,” I retorted. Deb knew, of course, that a police officer in Homicide couldn’t get emotionally invested in the crime scene, or else they’re no good at their job at all. That reason was why I was good at my occupation--sociopathic blood guy, Dexter Morgan.

“Yeah, but he also said, ’go after what you want.’” Deb said without hesitation. I wondered if she would be any good in a police briefing or a court debate, or if her sharp tongue only applied to her brother. “I want out of Vice and into Homicide.”

I leaned against the wall between the door and the window and slid down into a crouching position. “What can I do to help?”

She looked down at her T-strap shoes, and I immediately knew what she wanted. “You get these hunches, you know, with these types of murders.”

“Only sometimes,” I said, forcibly humbling myself. Deb need not know that I only got hunches because it’s exactly what I would--or wouldn’t do. 

“Well, see if you get one this time,” she suggested, like they were some kind of prize in a cereal box. “And can I bounce some ideas off of you later? You know I always get smarter when I’m talking to you.”

“You’re smart enough,” I said firmly, nodding to accentuate my point. “You just need a little more confidence.”

She looked back down at her shoes, and I pursed my lips. Everyone in the department knew LaGuerta could be an ass even if you weren’t on her hit-list, and Debra Morgan was Number One. If she wanted to get into Homicide, she’d probably need my help and a “fuckton” of luck, as she’d say it. “Alright, I’ll take a look.”

I got to my feet as she looked up at me like I had just proven myself to be an immortal deity. “In the meantime,” I said, pushing to my feet and dusting off my khakis, “avoid LaGuerta and talk to Captain Matthews. He and Dad were tight, maybe he’ll put you on the case.”

“You’re making me smarter already, see?” Deb snickered, and I smiled as well.

“And keep the sex suit on when you’re talking to the Captain,” I said, only half-sarcastic. “It’ll help your cause.”

Before she could come up with some searing retort about my own clothing choice, I turned on my heel and made for the door. She snorted, and I gave her a smile as I shut it behind me.

My smile faded just as fast as it had appeared. There was a serial killer on the loose, and I had no idea up until now. Why hadn’t I been put on two homicides where the perp  _ cut people up _ ? Not only is that a page from  _ Darkly Dreaming Dexter’s Manual To Serial Killing _ , but it’s one of the bloodier ways of killing.

I picked up the pace as I made my way over to the pool, fumbling for the latex gloves in my back pocket. As one of the unis opened the pool gate for me, I snapped the gloves on and looked down into the pool.

Vince Masuka, Angel Batista, and a man I didn’t fully recognize were all crouching near the body, taking notes. As soon as Masuka saw me, he leapt to his feet, bouncing and grinning pervertedly. 

“That’s a nice haircut, Masuka,” I said politely, looking at his new bald head. The thick, black locks he had once worn were gone, replaced with tight buzz cut reminiscent of military-required cuts. 

“I saw your sister,” Masuka said, practically salivating at the thought of Deb in her crop-tank. “Damn, looking hot.”

_ I’ll pretend to misinterpret that. _ “Yeah,she should. It’s hot as hell out here,” I said, putting my hand above my eyes to look up at the sky again. 

Masuka’s smile faded ever so slightly. Normally I’d be a little more accepting of his jokes and pervertedness, just out of my own courtesy to a coworker, but I was a little frustrated that I had missed the birth of a serial killer. “So...why are you here?’

_ Why am I--seriously?  _ “It’s a crime scene,” I replied in an even tone.

“Yeah, but you do blood spatter,” Masuka said. At those words, the unfamiliar man turned his head to look at me, narrowed his eyes, and then went back to work. I found it best to ignore him.

“So?” I asked Masuka.

Masuka jutted his chin out, making a confident expression that he only got when he knew something I didn’t. It was a rare expression. “So, there’s no blood here.”

It felt like a deafening gong went off in my head. I blinked twice, processing the information, before asking, “What was that?”

“Yeah, there’s no blood in or on or near the body,” Masuka said, the ringing of the mental gong still making my world vibrate. Masuka seemed just as impressed, and I suppose it explained why I hadn’t been brought in on the last two murders. “It’s the weirdest thing you ever saw. Even the new ME’s tripped up. Hey, hey, Angel, let’s show him.”

_ No blood, _ I thought numbly, like someone had just shot me and I was thinking my last comprehensible thoughts.  _ No sticky, hot, messy, awful blood.  _ All I could do was stand, still as a pole as Masuka and Angel rolled the protective blanket off of the body.  _ No blood at all. _

The body revealed was cut neatly, from what I could tell. My brain was still bamboozled, but forensic procedure was as ingrained in my mind as the Code was. The human flesh looked more like something you’d purchase at the deli, wrapped in twine and butcher paper. Even without the oversaturated Miami sun, this homicide looked so...surreal.

_ Why didn’t I think of that?  _ I thought. _ Of course I wouldn’t be brought in for this. No blood at all. _ I almost stumbled towards the body, and the third unnamed man moved out of the way so I could examine the severed pieces of the hooker. 

I crouched down in front of it, and I was only half-aware that my jaw was hanging low.  _ What a beautiful idea.  _ “How does he do it?” I asked, almost compulsively. “How does the killer get rid of the blood?”

“It’s hard to say,” Angel said, his hands on his knees as he looked over the corpse. “The body’s in good shape, almost pristine condition according to Theo over there.” I didn’t even bother to look at Theo, I didn’t dare turn my eyes away from the body that lay in front of me. “She’s got a nice ass, too.”

“Head is over there, if you want to take a look,” Theo said, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see him point across the pool. I had seen the spherical ball of butcher paper, but could care less about who this was.  _ Why no blood? _

“This is unique!” I proclaimed, staring at the dead flesh like I might take it and run away with it.

“No shit,” Masuka said, still looking up at me. “And no prints, either.”

_ I’ve never seen such clean, dry, neat-looking dead flesh,  _ I thought, another gong going off in my head as I thought about it. If the creator of this piece of art was a serial killer, did I really want to kill him? Because this…this is... _ wonderful.  _ “Very clean,” I said, fully-aware that I wasn’t much help if there wasn’t any blood.

“Yeah, but he didn’t finish,” Angel said, and I managed to look up at him for that. Theo let out a small sigh, and Angel shot him a glare, pulling a Sharpie out from behind his ear. “ _ No terminó _ .”

“Looks pretty  _ completo  _ to me, Angel,” I said in a strangely steady voice for the inner conflict within me. I’d never felt such excitement over tracking a killer before, and I wasn’t even sure if I was hunting this guy. 

Theo opened his mouth, but Angel shook his head towards him. “No, no, look.” He pointed at the leg with his Sharpie as a presentation pointer. “He cut the leg into four pieces, almost like using a ruler. But this leg is in  _ three _ pieces. And look, he started to make a fourth cut...but stopped. It’s possible that he got interrupted.”

“LaGuerta’s looking for a witness,” Vince said from beside me, and I saw Theo get to his feet and run his gloved hand along the butcher paper, almost as if he was trying to tell me something. I wasn’t paying attention to him right now. “She’s working on that motel porter back there. Pity him.”

Masuka and Angel shared a laugh as I smiled and nodded along, head feeling like it had been stuffed with cotton. Theo picked up a paper-wrapped forearm and began to untie it, taking notes on the condition of the covered skin. 

_ No blood,  _ I shut my eyes, feeling the urge to rub at them with my knuckles.  _ I can’t think.  _ I got to my feet, turning and heading towards the shallow end of the pool.  _ I have to get out of here. _

“Dex?” Angel asked from behind me. “ _ ¿Dónde va? _ Where are you going?”

I forced out a nonchalant shrug, slipping my hands out of their latex gloves with an admittedly nervous grin. “Hey. no blood, _ no trabajo _ .”

I could feel Angel’s worried eyes on me as I left--normally I’m so interested in crime scenes, excited at the prospect of another hunt. But now, with the vision of that bloodless flesh seared in my mind, my Dark Passenger was howling for the hunt, once again.

**. o O o .**

**DEXTER MORGAN**

There’s nothing like the smell of donuts to clear the mind--and the faintest smell of blood in my car. Generally, it wouldn’t stink itself up like this, but I had let myself go with the priest, just a tad. But the sickeningly sweet smell of pastries and glaze overwhelmed it within moments.

In fact, the entire precinct now smelled faintly of donuts. I had already passed through most of the homicide department, including the records room with the ever-so-charming Camilla Figg. Sometimes it was beneficial to have a connection in records--made it easier for me to pick up the background of some of my targets. Rifle through the files I volunteered to reorganize, and bam, convictions and crime records.

The Analytical, Forensic, and Serology labs had already been presented with donuts, and all I had left to do was deliver the medical examiner her apple fritter and ask her more about the bloodless hooker. She had always played it a little loose with her information--like LaGuerta, she must’ve found me rather attractive. Not sure what that’s about.

I hung a right as I passed the elevator, towards the door labelled “Medical Examiner”. There was a neon green Post-It slapped over the old ME’s name. The “Melissa Prentiss” was covered up with a “Theodore Lancaster,” written in small, slanted letters. 

I raised an eyebrow--Masuka and Angel had mentioned the ME was on this case, but had they mentioned a new one? For the life of me, I couldn’t remember. Just thinking about this morning brought the gong and the bloodless body back to the forefront of my mind.

Lifting my hand to the door, I rapped three times, and heard something clatter onto a table, and the scuffle of some footprints coming towards the door. It swung open, and the man from earlier--Theo--looked at me with a friendly smile. His grin faded ever so slightly as he looked at me, but I wasn’t sure why.

“You’re the blood guy,” Theo said, looking at my face, then down at the donut box, then back up at me. “Cool, cool. Need something?”

“I didn’t know we got a new medical examiner,” I replied in a gregarious tone, opening the donut box. “You a fan of apple fritters? Dr. Prentiss was.”

“I’ll take one, if that’s what you’re implying,” Theo said, taking off one of his latex gloves to grab the pastry. He gestured me inside, taking a bite of the fritter. “Come on inside.”

I took a look at the donut box.  _ Just like me. Clean, crisp outside, and nothing at all on the inside. _

“So, is there a special occasion, or do you just bring donuts every Friday?” Theo asked, licking some crumbs off his face. He then turned to the examination table at the back of the room, with the  _ exquisite _ bloodless body laying on it, fully unwrapped. He must’ve noticed me staring at it, and he raised his eyebrow. “Go on, take a look at it.”

“Really?” I asked, looking up at him. Prentiss had been nice, but she hadn’t let me see the body without LaGuerta’s express permission. It violated the chain of custody--but I wasn’t in the chain on this one, I suppose. 

“No, please it’s not going anywhere,” Theo replied easily, walking over to the body with me. He hovered his hand over the half-finished cut on the left leg. “Give me your thoughts. I’ve been told you’re a proficient blood analyst?”

“Source?” I asked in an almost joking matter, trying to keep up the conversation as I practically drooled over the body. “And I figure I wouldn’t be much help on this case, anyways.”

“LaGuerta told me,” Theo answered my question, and I could tell he was watching my facial expressions. Surely, he figured that a blood spatter analyst would be used to seeing a corpse. “That’s all she managed to get in with James pretty much slandering you the whole time.”

“James, as in James Doakes?” I inquired casually, slipping on the latex gloves and running my hands over the severed pieces of the body.  _ He’s on a first-name basis with that ass? How?  _

“That’s the guy,” Theo said, finishing up the apple fritter and putting on his own gloves. I took a moment to look around the room, analyze Theo just a bit. Doakes was only on a first-name basis with LaGuerta, and they used to be partners.

The room was clean and smelled faintly of bleach--both expected for a medical examiner’s room. The computers had a few tabs up on blood draining techniques, and the desk was covered in files and papers. Pretty standard. 

Theo himself stood with a straight posture, even as he stooped over the body, examining the hooker’s dead eyes. There wasn’t much to go off of with him, given all he’d been doing since I met him was standing around and sitting. 

“You look perplexed,” Theo said, jolting me from my thoughts. “Doakes and I are both ex-black ops. Figured you’d be a little confused--I’m assuming you know he hates your guts.”

“I’m aware,” I said, trying to keep my eyes away from the body. Doakes was the only one in the department who was even remotely suspicious of me in any way, and his black ops friend could be the same. Though he definitely lacked the aggression that his brother-in-arms had. “What’d you do in the army?”

“Combat medic,” Theo answered, picking up a severed thigh and looking at the cut. “What do you think? Bone saw? Circular reciprocating saw? Plain old butcher knife?”

“Can’t say,” I admitted. I was only half-lying. It was a lot easier to determine a weapon if I could see the blood, but also, I wouldn’t give any evidence I had to this new ME who was friends with Doakes. This killer already belonged to me, I could feel it.  _ But it’s probably a bone-- _

“Bone saw, definitely,” Theo said, setting down the leg. He didn’t seem too fazed by looking at sliced muscle and bone, which was typical of medical examiners and doctors in general. “Thanks for the apple fritter, but I’m sure you have some work to get to.”

“Actually, I’ve got some time,” I said, pushing to get some information on the killer. I could accept that medical examiners had a different skillset than I, could function without that scarlet liquid they call blood. “Care to tell me about...this?” I drew a line over the body.

“Well, I’ve heard that you get your fair share of interesting hunches,” Theo said, and I couldn’t tell if he was trying to evade explanation or just be friendly and amiable. “Well, here’s what I’ve got. Whoever killed the body made the cuts post-mortem, telling from the fact that there’s no trace of sanitary devices on any of the extremities except for the head. The killer wiped the faces clean, leaving me to assume that he slit their throats and strung them upside-down to bleed them dry. He slices and cleans them up for display later.”

I nodded in agreement, more intrigued in modus operandi than anything else Theo had to say. But before I could leave, Theo looked up at me. “The cuts were surgical and clean--no hesitation. Not only is this is third kill, making him a serial killer, but he enjoys what he does. Prostitutes, well, they’re the most common target for serial killers--mostly sexual sadists. He’s organized, and probably well-aware of his condition.”

“And you get all this from looking at this body?” I asked, scratching at the back of my head. “That’s pretty impressive.”

“I wanted to be an FBI agent when I was a kid,” Theo said honestly, with an awkward little chuckle. “I watched a few too many true crime shows that’s mentally healthy for a fourteen-year-old kid.”

“Why’d you trade it in for a job at Miami Metro?” I asked, trying to get a feel for him. The more I knew about the people around me, the easier it was for me to keep my secret from them. 

“Miami’s my home,” Theo said without hesitation. “Crime-riddled as it is, this is where I should be.” He paused, as if he were thinking long and hard about giving up a chance with the FBI. “Not to mention, my sister runs one of the biggest restaurants here.”

“You have a sister, too?” I asked, adding on the last word to make me sound a little less pressing and a little more amicable. 

“Indeed I do,” Theo said, turning on the heel of his olive-colored Vans and typing up more information on the report. “Fiona Lancaster.”

I recognized that name. “So you weren’t kidding--she runs the  _ Atlas _ restaurant on Main Street. I took my girlfriend, Rita, there for dinner just a couple weeks ago.” Another machination to get him to open up a little, though Theo seemed to have no problem talking about himself. Most people didn’t--I’d be more concerned if he was aggressively private. In fact, he acted quite the opposite of Doakes, despite having the same background. 

People do deal with trauma differently though. Some people go to therapy, I kill people and put them in compostable trash bags. Doakes has anger issues, and Theo’s being friendly. 

“Well, I’d invite you to Happy Hour tonight, but I don’t think you’re the kind of guy to drink.” I looked up at him, as if to ask, “How so?”, and he smiled a bit. “Just a hunch. Also, you’re the only one in the precinct who didn’t come to Happy Hour last week. Wrong to assume?”

“I didn’t even know we got a new ME,” I reluctantly admitted.  _ Not like I would’ve gone anyways. He’s right. I’m not too big a fan of alcohol in public places. Starts too many problems. _ “And, I can’t come to Happy Hour tonight, either. I have another date with Rita--the Soundwave Festival.”  _ I also have to stalk and kill my newest target. _

“Have fun, then,” Theo said, submitting the report and setting it out to print, before making a beeline for the door. “If you can get a word in, tell Doakes that I said hello.”

“Will do,” I said, power-walking out of the room.

**. o O o .**

**DEXTER MORGAN**

I had been running my conversation with Theo through my head for the past hour or so, spinning in my chair, his face mixed with the beautiful dead flesh of the Tamiami Slasher’s newest kill. The name for this killer wasn’t particularly catchy, but his MO sure was. At least, to me.

I hadn’t noticed it in the wake of the body, but Theo looked like he had wanted to tell me something. His hand had covered the cut on the body, and at the crime scene, he had seemed hesitant when Angel said the Slasher had been interrupted, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized Theo was right.

If there had really been a witness, how would he have had time to wrap up the body? The dead,  _ bloodless _ body had really thrown me off my game today, if I couldn’t pick up on something as small as that.

“Where the hell you been?” The wrathful, accusatory voice of James Doakes cut into my thoughts. 

I didn’t even stop spinning in my chair, looking as the blood spatter examples on my wall blurred into one sea of red. “Crime scene,” I explained, catching his angry face in between crimson blotches. I stopped spinning, lowering the chair as he threw some photos onto my desk. 

“What about these?” He asked, looking and pointing down at them. “The hotel cokehead murders, this dealer and the girl?” I flipped through them, the girl splayed out like it was a soap opera murder-mystery, listening to Doakes’ harsh voice. His anger hardly fazed me now--he was right, after all, why hold it against him?

“Well, this Hallmark-looking couple didn’t die by the hands of a professional,” I mumbled, and I might’ve sounded a little bit disgruntled. I was less than excited to go to a crime scene where nothing had anything to do with the Slasher. “This is child’s play. Messy work,” I explained, turning the photo to Doakes. “See all that blood on the walls? It looks like a finger painting.”

“You give me the fuckin’ creeps, you know that, Dexter?” Doakes said, jutting a hand out over his hip in a rather imposing manner. 

“Yeah, I know,” I said, turning back to my wall with a smile. “Dr. Lancaster told me all about it. Sorry about that.”

He leaned in a little closer, narrowing his eyes at me. “Fuck you.”

“Okay,” I said, pressing my lips together as if I was mildly offended and surprised. I could care less what he said, he didn’t bother me with my extra-curricular work...so he was fine. “Um, is there something I can do for you?”

“Yeah, you can give me the fucking analysis on the blood spatter for these fuckin’ killings!” Doakes said, gesturing at the crime scene photos again. “What, you think I’m here to invite you to my nephew’s bris?”

I looked down at the crime scene photos, before raising my eyebrows in surprise. “I didn’t know you were Jewish.”

“Shut the  _ fuck _ up and write your report already,” Doakes said, no on even turning heads at Doakes’ aggressive behavior. It was daily--sort of raised the report quality, or else he’d crack down on you. “Don’t even know why I need you.”

“Because I can’t do blood spatter,” a voice came from behind Doakes, and I saw the man’s face lighten a bit. I almost smiled as Theo peeked out from behind Doakes’ muscular figure. 

“I wish you’d fuckin’ learn,” Doakes said in a considerably more friendly tone as he turned away from me. “Then I could do out with this freakshow.”

“Don’t be so harsh,” Theo said, dropping a few case reports onto Doakes’ desk. He gave Doakes a relaxed smile, and Doakes waved him off. I noted how Theo avoided saying his opinion on me, whether he was avoiding Doakes’ wrath or keeping it off of me. The second option wasn’t my favorite--I didn’t need someone protecting me. 

“Okay, grab a crayon, psycho, and write this down,” Doakes said, face contorting into a more irritated one as he looked back at me. “Rival dealer came in, two scumbags slashed to hell, dealer stole the drugs. Wham, bam, done. And I don’t give a shit what you say, because that’s what happened, and that’s who I’m looking for.” As if I could lose my attention span in .5 seconds, he drew a line from his eyes to mine. “Hey, we are looking for a  _ motherfucking  _ thief dealer. You got it?”

“Okay,” I said, nodding along. “Sure. I guess,” Doakes stood up, looking around at the station as Batista and Theo had a quiet argument, probably about the nonexistent witness at the pool girl crime scene. “Uh, I should get over there.”

“Then get over there already, you fuckin’ weirdo,” Doakes said, gesturing away from my little cubicle. I couldn’t wait until the blood lab was cleaned out--an intern had spilled a chemical or two, and they had to resanitize the place. “And I need that report quick.”

“I’m on it, Sergeant,” I said, debating on a lazy salute as he power-walked away from me.  _ The only real question I have is why, in a building full of cops, all supposedly with a keen insight to the human soul, is  _ Doakes _ the only one who gets the creeps from me? _


End file.
